Bruises From A World Best Forgotten
by Mexx
Summary: DracoHermione. Future fic; “It had been a long time since he’d thought of her as a Mudblood, even longer since he’d thought of her as anything but his.”


TITLE: Bruises from a world best forgotten. AUTHOR: Mexx EMAIL: mexx@wild-dystopia.net DISCLAIMER: Not mine... you know the drill. RATING: PG-13, implied sex, abuse and violence. SUMMARY: Future fic; "It had been a long time since he'd thought of her as a Mudblood, even longer since he'd thought of her as anything but his." FEEDBACK: Don't make me beg. Seeing me beg isn't pretty. But feedback would be nice. DEDICATION: To Helena. Thank you for encouraging me throughout this fic, and feeding my muse. Thank you also to Sky for the beta. AUTHOR'S NOTE: If you think that either Hermione or Draco are OOC in this then I agree with you, but this is because it's set in the future, and a lot has changed for both Draco and Hermione. They're not supposed to be the same people they were in school; adult life will have changed them.  
  
It wasn't love, that's what they both kept telling themselves. It was just sex. She had a husband, and he had a bachelor façade to maintain. It was not love they needed, just release.  
  
They met every second Sunday at his flat in North London. Hermione's husband Jonathan looked after their daughter while his wife slipped away on the tube to meet her secret lover on the doorstep of his flat. He whisked her indoors, kissed her lips and led her to the bedroom. It was always the same, but never boring. Every time they touched it felt like gold; an unadulterated release of energy and feeling and magic that they could only find in each other's arms.  
  
Their relationship, if one could call it that, had begun the year they'd left school -- the same year that Harry and Ron and so many others had died. Voldemort had risen to power as was expected, but he was far more powerful than even Dumbledore could have guessed. He'd wiped out hundreds of wizards and witches in the space of one week; Diagon Alley stood in ruins; and Hogwarts was soon abandoned. Most of those who'd fought had been killed. Harry had been the hero, sacrificing himself to kill Voldemort once and for all. Ron had disappeared three weeks after Harry's death; his body had been found washed up on a riverbank two weeks after that. Hermione, alone in the wizarding world, had sought comfort from the only surviving wizard of her adolescence and he found solace in her. The relationship wasn't remotely comforting in itself—Draco was full of bitterness, harboured hatred for the world and exuded a general couldn't give-a-fuck attitude, but having someone to turn to was enough for Hermione.  
  
They never revealed their relationship to anyone; she was too distraught over her actions, and he was ashamed of being a blood traitor after sacrificing his Father to the Aurors. Despite the secrecy, they quickly fell into a routine that proved hard to break even after she'd met Jonathan.  
  
On one particular Sunday afternoon-- the same as all the others except perhaps for the steady trickle of snow dancing in the view visible from the penthouse flat-- Draco lay with his arms curled around her, their legs entwined and bodies touching. Hermione's cheek rested on his chest and she breathed softly. His fingers idly traced the contours of her body and she flinched when his fingers reached the small of her back.  
  
"What is it?" he demanded quietly.  
  
She shrugged and refused to meet his eyes. "It's nothing, I just have a bruise."  
  
Subtlety had never been his strong point, especially when it concerned something that was his. "Where from?"  
  
"I..." She paused; she had no acceptable explanation to offer him. "It was an accident."  
  
"Like last time?" he challenged her, and she tensed in his arms. "Like last time when you 'tripped and fell into a door'? I know you, Granger... you might be clumsy at times, but bruises like this aren't from accidents."  
  
Hermione struggled for release from his embrace and stepped out of bed. She turned her back on him and gathered her clothing from the floor. In the hollow light beaming from behind the heavy clouds he could see the purplish bruises running along her spine. He blinked to block out the brutal picture her body presented, but even with his eyes closed the image was still there; burned into his mind.  
  
"Why do you stay with that wanker?" Draco demanded from the bed.  
  
She ignored him and continued searching for her underwear. She finally answered him after finding her knickers behind the radiator and her bra beneath the bed. "My daughter... she needs her father..."  
  
Draco's lips tightened in frustration, and shook his head. "How can you stay with that bloody muggle after everything he does to you?"  
  
Hermione paused, then cursed as her fingers pulled a ladder through her tights. "You wouldn't understand."  
  
"I understand bloody well that you let that git hit you if you so much as touch your wand!" He fumed and stalked out of the bed, discarding the quilt on the floor before yanking on a pair of black jeans, fumbling with the buckle in his haste.  
  
"It's only in front of Eleanor-" Hermione protested weakly, but knew it was futile. Draco knew everything about her relationship with Jonathan—he'd become her confidant of sorts when she'd lost all contact with those she knew in the magical world. Draco had been there when she'd had no one else to talk to.  
  
"Like hell it is—first not in front of the kid, then not in the house, then not at all! You're a witch, damn it, and that muggle twat is not going to quash it out of you by hitting you every time you try and do what you born to do!"  
  
"Born to do? Oh that's rich," she scoffed. "You spent seven years telling me I didn't belong in the magical world, that I was unworthy—a filthy Mudblood!"  
  
"You don't believe that shit, do you?" he asked incredulously. "I may have been a bastard, but I never really meant it. I didn't give a toss—I just wanted to piss you off!"  
  
"Good job!" Hermione snarled and stormed out the bedroom.  
  
Moments later, Draco heard the front door slam and he flopped down on his bed, groaning. This hadn't been the first fight about Jonathan and although they'd argued about the recurring bruises many a time, the abuse wasn't the entire reason Draco was urging her to leave her prick of a husband. Draco was sick of sharing her. He was sick of watching the woman whom he had finally admitted to himself that he loved go through hell for the sake of obligation and the hope of normalcy. He was sick of not being able to sleep in the same bed as her, to wake up in the morning cradling in his arms, or to have her bear his children.  
  
It had been a long time since he'd thought of her as a Mudblood, even longer since he'd thought of her as anything but his. Yet despite his misgivings so many years ago, he'd let her marry the muggle she'd appeared so enamoured with but declined her invitation to the wedding— he'd not known he loved her then, and denial could only carry a man so far. Before long, the bruises that had began to sporadically appear on her body concerned him, and suddenly Draco felt the concern turning into something more powerful than he could begin to comprehend.  
  
Still, he'd never told her how he felt. How could he, when at first she'd seemed so perfectly happy in her wonderful marriage with a wonderful husband and wonderful daughter? He'd watched her fall in love with the idea of marrying a muggle; of getting away from the magical world and away from the hurt and the pain. He'd watched her marry an idea instead of a man.  
  
**  
  
Two weeks later Hermione stood waiting at Draco's doorstep, angry, bruised and full of yearning. The door opened to reveal an unusually dishevelled Draco: his hair was mussed, his t-shirt was grubby and his jeans were unbuckled, yet despite his curiously tousled appearance he was as beautiful as ever.  
  
He took a swift appraisal of Hermione's body and, finding no noticeable bruises, drew her toward him. But instead of the kiss she expected to find on her lips, Hermione found herself drawn into his embrace—comforted by his warmth.  
  
"Draco, what's—"  
  
"Shhhh," he admonished, breathing in her scent and drawing her closer still.  
  
"Draco?"  
  
Finally he relented, silencing her with his lips.  
  
Hermione lost herself in the familiar sensation of his cool lips against hers and tried to forget his uncharacteristic embrace—how many times in the past had she needed nonsexual comfort yet he'd been unwilling to offer it? Why now, when she'd learn to cope with the pain?  
  
He led her to the bedroom, as was usual to their Sunday afternoon meetings. Seldom did they make love anywhere but in the bedroom—Draco being too ardent a lover of silken bed linen and Hermione now too acquiescent.  
  
Surrounded by sheets and wrapped in each other's bodies, Draco's kisses became more intense than Hermione could ever recall. His movements and ministrations however, were as passionate as ever: his fingers caressed where they were most needed and his body moved against hers in just the way to create the friction they desperately wanted. But the kisses were different, if not new. Deeper, more fulfilling, as if he was trying to fall right into her, to become part of her and never lose her.  
  
Afterward, as Hermione lay locked in Draco's arms, she began to wonder about the sudden, almost imperceptible change in his attitude toward her. "Draco, is everything ok?" she asked timidly. Why ask a question she was sure she already knew the answer to?  
  
"Leave him." Draco growled.  
  
"What?" she asked, startled.  
  
"I said 'leave him'."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"How many fucking reasons do you need?" Draco demanded harshly. Hermione had slid from his arms and was now sitting on the bed, her arms crossed defensively over her chest. Draco hoisted himself up into a sitting position and pushed most of the quilt toward her so she could cover herself. "He hits you... isn't that reason enough?"  
  
"Only when he's angry! When I make him angry and I--"  
  
"And that's an excuse?" Draco raged, standing up and stalking over to the dresser to grab some clean clothes from the drawers.  
  
"No, but it's enough to let me stay with him," Hermione protested feebly, quite unsure where the brave and strong Gryffindor within her had disappeared to. Would the girl of her teenage years have stood for an abusive husband? Would she have gotten stuck in such a marriage in the first place? "He loves our daughter, I can't destroy this family... she needs him."  
  
"I need you!" Draco told her fiercely.  
  
"You just need a regular shag," she informed him bitterly.  
  
Draco's lips tightened in annoyance and surprise. "Is that what you think? That that's all you think you are to me?"  
  
"What else would I be?"  
  
"You're the only person in this world I give a toss about--I love you!"  
  
Hermione's eyes widened in surprise, her breath caught in her throat and she stopped struggling with the sheets she'd been trying to untangle herself from. She didn't say anything for several moments, completely unprepared for his impassioned declaration. Across the room, Draco fell silent and watched her cautiously—unsure how she was going to react to his impromptu announcement.  
  
"It's funny," she finally mused, "Whenever we're together we end up fighting. How can that be love?"  
  
She looked up to meet his eyes, but he stared down at her coldly, broken by her words. His lips tightened to a screwed up slit, and he fought the urge to curse and scream and swear and hex. Instead, he walked to the doorway of the room, and spoke to her with his back turned, his voice cold. "Get out. Get out and go back to your husband and daughter and I hope you will all be very, very happy together. I hope the bruises fade."  
  
"Draco," she attempted softly.  
  
His head whipped around and his eyes met hers once more, but they were not full of the passion he'd displayed only moments ago; they were dead now, indifferent. "I said get out." He stormed out of the flat and Hermione flinched as she heard the door slam.  
  
Hermione shook her head and buried her face in her hands, crying. The only person in the world who seemed to care about her had confessed his love to her and she'd rebuked him, scared of admitting her own feelings. She'd known this man longer than she'd known anyone else still in her life--he'd been her cornerstone and support through so much tragedy, he'd held her so tightly sometimes, made her feel whole and he asked for nothing in return. How could she not love him? And now, when he'd confessed his love, she'd been unable to return it vocally because she was simply too scared.  
  
**  
  
Two months passed and Draco heard nothing from her. He was worried; they'd fought before and never had she completely blocked him out of her life. This time he knew things might be destroyed forever. He'd said something he'd never be able to take back, and she'd not accepted it.  
  
It was a Sunday afternoon again--the snows of December had given way to the chill rains of February—and Draco sat waiting as if the last two months had never happened and Hermione was to arrive at his flat at any given moment. But she wasn't going to come, he knew that. He'd told her to get out and get on with her life, and that cut him up more than anything else because he loved her and she wasn't with him and it was all his fault.  
  
He'd been tempted to seek her out, but had refrained; that was never part of the deal. She was always to come to him, that's the way it had been since the beginning, since the first night she'd knocked on his door at The Leaky Cauldron-- the only building in Diagon Alley still completely intact-- and offered herself to him. She'd been drunk at the time, full of tears and giddy smiles and desperate for *something*, but at the time neither of them knew just quite what it was she craved. She'd smiled at him, her fingers playing with the buttons on his shirt. She'd invited herself in. Draco hadn't refused, too confused over his own sudden reversal in attitude to question hers.  
  
He'd berated himself as he let her lead him to the bed; she was drunk, he shouldn't be taking advantage. But how could he not when there was nothing left in the world for him but galleons and galleons of money stored in the underground (therefore not demolished) vaults of Gringrotts and a cold, empty manor in the middle of the British countryside, and this soft, smiling woman was offering him the comfort of a touch?  
  
She was gone the next morning when he'd woken up. It wasn't until he was reading the morning paper he discovered both Potter and Weasley were dead. No wonder the girl who'd despised him for years had shared his bed the night before...she'd had no one left in the wizarding world to turn to.  
  
Two weeks later she'd knocked on his door again, and so became their routine. At first they'd spoken very little, most of which were moans of pleasure anyway. But as time passed Draco moved away from the pub into his own flat, and Hermione rebuilt her life; they began to speak to each other a little more until he knew the specifics of her life at the time and she knew exactly how he'd come to turn against the dark side.  
  
Over time Hermione learnt that Draco was ticklish, but only on his knees. She found that he liked coffee, but couldn't stand tea and had an odd affinity for black silk. He in turn learned that she had never cried over the death of her friends until the night she broke down in his arms and he'd rocked her into a tearful sleep. He'd learnt that her intelligence not only made her useful to have around, but a delight to talk to. He discovered she loved the smell of coffee, and the taste of it on his lips, but would never drink it herself.  
  
Lost in memories of the past Draco fell asleep mid-afternoon, still hoping for her unlikely arrival. He dreamt of her, as always, dreams of the past, and dreams of a yearned for future.  
  
**  
  
Hours later, Draco was jolted from his tumultuous sleep by a continuous knocking on the door to his flat. It was still daylight, indicating it was early afternoon. For a second Draco allowed himself to hope that it was Hermione, but he dashed his own hope before he could even reach the door. What would be the point in wishing for the arrival of a woman who almost certainly hated him?  
  
But to his enormous surprise, upon opening the door he found her standing in the hallway—her dark, hopeless brown eyes staring up at him.  
  
"Hermione?" he asked in disbelief.  
  
Hermione hiccupped quietly but said nothing as she continued staring up into his eyes; tearful brown boring into hardened grey.  
  
"What's the matter, cat got your tongue?" he asked, his voice regaining its usual bitter edge after the initial shock of seeing her faded, replaced by anger at her previous deliberate disregard for him.  
  
"Draco, I-" she began and took a step toward the doorway, trying to push past him into the flat. He stood aside to let her through and watched as she made her way to the living room, not--he noticed with a slight amount of upset--the bedroom.  
  
"I'm sorry for what happened..."  
  
"Save it," Draco snarled and lounged on the corner of the sofa, staring at her as she stood in the corner of the room.  
  
Hermione's lips tightened in annoyance; in the fifteen years she'd known him he'd always been able to aggravate her like no one else. "I came here to apologise!"  
  
"I don't need to hear it; it's not like you're ever going to do anything to change the situation." Draco worked hard on keeping his voice even, indifferent. He didn't need her knowing how much simply seeing her was tearing him up inside. When had things become so complicated between them?  
  
Hermione temporarily ignored his acrid comment, and silently focused on divesting herself of her coat and scarf. Without the hindrance of her outer clothing, Draco could clearly see the small, but definite swell of her belly, the beautiful curve and distinct implication of her condition. "How does *this* change the situation, Draco?"  
  
Contrary to every scenario Hermione constructed in her mind as to how Draco might react to her pregnancy, his eyes misted over with an angry fog, and he leapt toward her, pinning her against the wood-chip papered wall. "You still let him touch you after all he did to you?" he demanded angrily.  
  
Hermione shook her head, choking back tears that had sprung to her eyes in fear and surprise. Her sobs rendered her unable to answer him.  
  
"You wanted him to touch you after he hurt you," Draco accused. "You like it rough, do you Hermione?"  
  
Hermione shook her head, biting her lip to try and quell her strangling sobs.  
  
"Do you, huh?" He shook her roughly, his anger overriding his usual impeccable control. Somewhere at the back of his mind Draco knew he was scaring her but he couldn't stop...he was so angry at her behaviour. Weeks of dying hope, and an aching heart had finally built up into a maelstrom of unpleasant emotions, and now they were to be released on Hermione.  
  
"You don't understand!" she cried between hitches of breath, "It's not his- "  
  
"Shut up you silly cow, shut up!" Draco screamed but stopped shaking her body, resting one hand on her hip as the other tightly held onto her arm. "You like it rough with him... you let that twat touch you like this, why not me?" His fingers bit into her hip.  
  
"No...Draco, please no..." she whispered, "this isn't you..."  
  
"Is he better than me? Is that why he can do this?" he snarled, his left hand abandoning her arm and reaching for her breast, "Am I worth nothing to you? Your bit on the side? Your dirty little secret?"  
  
"No!" she screamed, trying to fend him off but failing miserably.  
  
"Then why the hell did you let him knock you up?" he roared, finally releasing her and letting her slump to the floor.  
  
"I didn't!" she screamed back, his release giving her strength. "It's your baby!"  
  
Draco's eyes widened upon hearing her truthful declaration. The fear and suffering that had fuelled his anger dissipated and he staggered backward, landing uncomfortably on the corner armrest of the couch. He blinked slowly, and then dropped his face into his hands.  
  
Hermione watched Draco's rapid change in emotions, from anger to shock to what now seemed like disbelief. She moved from where she'd been huddling in the corner, and slowly made her way over to Draco's unmoving figure. She sat on the couch and pulled him down beside her.  
  
They sat in silence for a long time, both too shocked at the events of the afternoon to contemplate what to do next. Finally, Draco's hand crept towards Hermione's and gripped her fingers with his own. He looked at her, slowly meeting her eyes.  
  
"A baby, then?"  
  
She nodded in affirmation, but remained silent.  
  
"My baby?"  
  
She nodded again.  
  
Draco paused for a second in contemplation, and then asked: "If I told you I loved you, would you run away again?"  
  
Hermione shook her head, but still didn't say anything.  
  
"I love you," he whispered, his voice barely audible.  
  
She hiccupped softly at his reassertion of his love for her, and then smiled. "I love you, too."  
  
Draco's eyes closed, and he blinked back the tears caused by the joy of hearing those words escaping her lips; with this knowledge he felt he could accomplish anything. His fingers traced the small bump on her abdomen, "How long?"  
  
"Just over three months. I found at two days after I left you, er... here."  
  
"And you didn't tell me until now?" Draco asked, his voice soft but accusing.  
  
"Things were...complicated." Hermione answered unsurely, not quite knowing the answer to his question herself.  
  
"They're always with you, aren't they Hermione?" Draco's voice had regained its bitter edge but it remained quiet and relatively calm. "Are you going to leave him now?"  
  
Hermione nodded assertively, then faltered. "He has no clue about any of this, about us—how do I tell him?"  
  
"Don't tell him about this. Tell him he's a wife beating wanker who deserves to rot in hell. Tell him you're taking your daughter with you and he's never going to see either of you again."  
  
Hermione smiled despite herself, "It's not that simple...divorce is complicated in the muggle world. Child custody is another thing we're going to have to deal with..."  
  
"So don't do it the bloody muggle way! Hermione, you're a witch, not one of them and that tosser is going to keep you in their world. Just leave it."  
  
"I can't just leave!" Hermione pointed out, logic overruling her heart which so desperately just wanted to fall into Draco's arms—into the magical world he represented—and never have to do anything muggle again. At one point she'd thought the worst thing she'd ever face was living in a world at the end of a war where her best friends were dead and she had nothing left. But now she knew that living in a world that represented the man that made her life a living hell was far worse.  
  
"You think we couldn't completely disappear from awareness of any muggles? My manor is like Hogwarts; it can't be seen my muggles, we'll be safe there. And besides, it's not like many other wizards associate with muggles except within the ministry. I assure you, Hermione, it is quite simple to deceive the muggles, disappear from their tracking...they have no clue what we're capable of."  
  
Hermione allowed herself to dream for a moment of a world where she would not have to lie about why she'd done the dishes so quickly, why the fireplace always smelt peculiar, and a world where'd she'd not flinch when a man's arm rose in her direction. She dreamt of a world where she'd be able to love Draco freely, where Jonathan would be completely banished from her mind—"What about Jonathan? He won't let me just disappear..."  
  
"Don't tell him, just let me handle it."  
  
"You won't hurt him, will you?" Hermione asked desperately. She may hate her husband now but she had cared for him once, and didn't want his death on her conscience.  
  
"That bloody twat deserves all he gets!" Draco scoffed, but upon seeing the expression on her face he softened. "Nothing drastic... just a memory charm. I'll figure out the specifics later."  
  
Hermione smiled. Draco had made everything seem so simple. Within mere moments he'd constructed a perfect plan for them to be together when she'd spent months agonising over what to do. She fell back into his arms, her lips seeking out his to kiss him softly. Planning the future could wait; she hadn't seen him in two months-- the longest time she'd gone without seeing him since she was eleven years old—and she intended to make up for lost time.  
  
Hermione's arms wound around his neck as his lips sought hers to further the kiss; they moved against each other as if time was standing still and they had all of the time in world for each other. Draco sucked Hermione's lip into his mouth, and she shuddered; he'd kissed her like this on their first night together, and although drunk at the time, she'd never forgotten it.  
  
Hermione's fingers reached for Draco's shirt, quickly undoing the buttons and pushing the fabric off his shoulders. As soon as the hindrance was gone, Hermione's lips left Draco's and began kissing her way down his torso, not stopping until she reached the waist band of his trousers. Her fingers replaced her mouth as she kissed her way back up his chest, at the same time her digits fumbling with his zip.  
  
Draco moaned again under her sought after touch—he'd hated going so long without her. Not that he'd denied himself sex over the past two months; he was not the type of man to remain loyal to a woman who was being unfaithful to him, but something about Hermione's touch meant so much more to him than any of the women he'd ever known.  
  
"Is this going to be ok?" Draco asked anxiously as he felt his trousers slide down his legs, followed by silk boxers.  
  
Hermione crawled her way back up his body and smiled impatiently. "Of course it is, you prat."  
  
"The baby—"  
  
"—will be fine." Hermione cut him off, and then grinned suggestively, "Help me get my knickers off."  
  
Draco smirked, and slid his hands up her skirt to find her underwear.  
  
**  
  
Some things in life were difficult to find, and even harder to keep hold of. Draco knew this, and as he drew Hermione's sleeping form closer to him he vowed to never let her go. The future was going to be hard, but not impossible; nothing was impossible when the result would be a family to love. Draco finally belonged somewhere and no longer had to hide in the dark.  
  
Hermione, he noted, had been almost reluctant to move in with him straight away when they had once again addressed the subject of the future. Perhaps she was worried about his behaviour toward her daughter, but Draco had assured her—in all honesty—that any child of hers he would love entirely. How could he not, when it was part of her?  
  
They'd decided to move into Draco's childhood home within the following months, as soon as the house-elves had banished the dust and cobwebs from every corner of the house. After deciding this, Hermione had vowed to free every single one of the enslaved creatures, and Draco smiled. He'd let her free every house-elf in the world if it meant that the spark that had danced in her eyes as a child would return to her smile.  
  
Hermione stirred in her sleep and snuggled closer to Draco who was spooned against her. Draco smiled and dropped a kiss onto her sleeping head. The journey had been hard—and they'd been hurt along the way—but the future looked set to be as beautiful as the woman sleeping in his arms.  
  
--finis 


End file.
